


all i am is a man (but that’s still not quite true, from me to you)

by pastelwolfie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Author is a Clay | Dream Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, Not Beta Read, We die like L’manberg, no comfort, not edited, somehow?? like WHAT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 12:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30055674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelwolfie/pseuds/pastelwolfie
Summary: dream is in prison for crimes he - technically? - didn’t commit.this is how he reacts when he’s told his friends are never visiting again.ORthe one fic i wrote after reading only dream angst for a weekend straight, stopped when he murders a kid in cannon, then picked back up after reading some more hurt dream fics.
Relationships: all the friendships are dead
Comments: 4
Kudos: 99





	all i am is a man (but that’s still not quite true, from me to you)

**Author's Note:**

> i hate c!dream with a passion but, hey, i can see him being angry, so, take some like,, poetic shit?? idk i don’t remember writing this it’s just in my drafts 💀
> 
> and yeah, title was inspired by sweater weather, fight me 😘

anger is horrifyingly cold. it surges your mind with angry flames that leave distraction and ashes in its wake, yet the burning rage is only the tip of it, like an iceberg. there’s so much underneath that you can’t even begin to comprehend, diving under the waves of trauma and emotion to catch a glimpse will leave you shivering in your skin for days. anger is cold and consuming, freezing your heart’s desires in favour of its explosive and corruptive outbursts. anger is cold. anger is a nightmare.  
this anger isn’t just a nightmare, though. this anger _is_ nightmare. it’s not his, it’s nightmares. but what is nightmare now but an extension of himself?

nightmare is a parasite, but in that same sense, isn’t he? the anger is a part of him, festering deep within the corners of his mind. the anger is impulsive in its desire for power, yet is strict and careful in its toxic way of acquiring such. he just wanted then to be safe, but the voice nibbling at the back of his brain said that that safety required his control, his power, and through the descent into the dark of his mind he lost it all. watched as any power or control he had slipped, not over the server- but over _himself_. he was no longer the wheezing, funny, caring person but a shell of what his demons made him. well, his dreamons. it’s what the entity called himself, maybe just to insult him further. rub salt into the infected wound.

anger was cold, but he was not. his heart ached for warmth he could never have, despite the curtains of molten rock that acted in place of his door. the sweltering heat only felt numb against his skin, marred with marks from his fits and episodes, when he’d start loosing himself to the frozen rage once more. thinking back, it made him shudder. the nightmare was over now, though. through his lack of human contact with anyone for months on end, the dreamon died- completely out of his control. not from his power, but his lack their of. his weakness weakened it, and so it died. pathetically, like him; slumped against obsidian wall, endless tear tracks washing down his face.   
he hadn’t had a visitor, his only company was the voice in his head that sounded like his demon counterpart, but it wasn’t. this was a part of him, it always had been. it whispered misfortunes and truths and half-baked lies into his brain, sending his mind spiralling through the darkness, into a void: lacking all warmth or hope of salvation. 

his body would give out on him, but he’d always come back. he was too weak to live, yet too weak to die like he so desired. why? why did they keep him? it was clear they hated him, they’d used him for what they’d kept him around for initially (the texts required to bring wilbur back, that was), was this just torment? his own personal hell? had he really died, and this obsidian box was his punishment, his repentance for the sins he _unwillingly_ commit?

the voice echoed what he already knew, that he was selfish and cruel, but fuck that- he’d been locked up in a box for _months_ for crimes he had only technically committed. did demonic possession not give him a pass? why would they throw his body in a cell for something a part of his mind (which he had no control over, a thing he had no power to stop) forced into existence?  
it was his fault, though, he argued back to the the reason in his head. he hadn’t stopped the dreamon, he hadn’t got it dealt with, like he should have. if he stood by and watched the crime, yet did nothing to stop or assist, didn’t that make him an accomplice? was he really just an accomplice if he commit the atrocities himself, though? was he himself?   
who _was_ he?  
the only constant in his mind now was the pain and the crushing guilt, numb to anything else. the darkness of the obsidian desensitised by the glaring light of the liquid heat that encased his new home, his residence. he had no home, this cell wasn’t his home. home lies within the hearts of those who love you, and whom you love as well. it didn’t work if it was one-sided, torn and ripped with icy rage. 

it was another day- night? left like any other: the passing of time blurred and marked only by the fucking tick-tick-ticking of the damn clock. he’d smashed it long ago, yet the mechanics that made the _infernal_ noice continued on, too weak to destroy it. he’s not seen anyone in so long, he didn’t know how long. chalking it up to a week or two though, right? it felt longer sure, but he knew- time passed slower when you were bored... and alone... and cold...

it had been 6 months. 

there was a truth dawning in the pits of his stomach, pulling him down with dread. nightmare had taken almost full control of his body, had been the puppeteer to his body, his marionette, since the rise of l’manburg.  
and _no one realised_.   
not one single soul noticed he wasn’t himself, not his enemies, his neutrals, his friends or even his parental figures. they all bat their eyes and thought ‘ _this is dream, he’s a monster_.’, never once considering that he wasn’t himself.  
the fact that they would associate him with doing something as sick and twisted as manipulating a child to attempt suicide made his heart spin, crushed his soul and broke his heart a thousand times over. 

his last visit hadn’t been pleasant in the slightest, one of his most trusted friends was venting on about how he’d kill him himself if he dare tried to escape.  
nightmare had tried, probably, and died in the process, too weak to get very far. the demon fed on anger and chaos and dream? well, he didn’t feel much of that anymore, he wasn’t mad: just... empty. he caused no chaos from within the obsidian walls, so the demon withered and died, staining the obsidian of his cell purple, dripping and oozing within obsidian tears, like the walls he was encased in were also crying.

the passage of time was unknown to him, all he could feel was that it was too long. the curtain of lava that draped over his exit, trapping in him, gradually stopped flowing, the too-loud click of mechanical pistons echoing in his ears to accommodate the movement of the practically floating platform, topped with 4 figures.   
4.  
that was more than ever. the most he’d had before was 2. were they finally executing him? letting him go? no, they probably needed something. reviving schlatt, maybe? items? he didn’t have the energy for any of it, but maybe- yeah, maybe he’d try. it was the least he could do after letting his body get used like a sock-puppet for so long. 

he looked at them, adjusting to the slight shift in light. he hadn’t been able to stare at anything other than the four walls he was held in for too long. the recognition was slow, but gradually, he managed to name them all.  
there was sam- the warden, of course, then a tommy with an expression he couldn’t quite place. with them was also his formerly explosive best friend, face a contorted anger. then george- he hadn’t visited, and his face was twisted into an expression he could also not comprehend. 

“dream, you have visitors. behave.”  
the warden’s voice was loud and cold, it hurt his heart and pushed his heart one step closer to failing on him entirely. the warden, however, didn’t leave as was per usual. he stayed on the platform, staring at the walls of his residence with an untraceable expression.  
“dream,”  
his head didn’t turn, it more so lolled to the side. he hadn’t the energy to keep it up right, so he let it roll limply to the side with as little applied force as possible.   
“i’m going to be straight with you. you won’t be seeing us again - any of us.”  
it was sapnap talking, hot and angry. his rage had always been special, fuelled like a flame and burning like one too- but it was still cold. frostbite leaves a burning sensation along your skin where it bites, so he guessed that was the case with sapnap.  
so freezing it left burn scars.  
“this is the last time you’ll see us, we don’t need you. we may want too, but we don’t. it’s better this way. you have to understand that,”  
there - there it was. the desperation for a time now passed, the regret for a friend fallen from grace.   
was it real? maybe. he’d been numb so long, it wasn’t like he could tell anymore.   
“what he means is, there anything you want to say? maybe a fuckin’ sorry, you psycho?”

ah, there was the brash child he remembered. kind of. tommy wasn’t angry, per say, he wasn’t cold. he was more a complicated blend of energetic, stubborn and blunt that had a nasty habit of coming off as anger, but it usually never was. on occasion he did get angry, dream can only shudder as he recalled through his third-person-view of the event as nightmare _relished_ in the provoked reaction.

“hm?”

that’s not how he wanted to say it at all.

“no ones ever seeing you again. anything you want to say? any messages? apologies?”

 _there it was_. they wanted him to _apologise_. and that? that made him feel cold. his first feeling - in what could be months! - was that of the icy grip of rage. he was still, alas, dream. he was theatric in nature, and- to hell with it! - he was never seeing them again, why not make it _hurt_?  
if they were still capable of guilt, that was.

“mh, just one, i think.”  
the itch at the back of his throat made his voice seem hoarse, but e managed to commit it to the airy nonchalance that nightmare always managed to possess. 

“r-really?”  
george sounded lost. dream was more than lost, though, he was gone. he felt like a constantly drifting fleck of nothing in a void of emptiness. 

“mhm. you hate me, yeah?”

silence. 

“hate what i’ve done, hate who i am. hate my face.”

a strange look from each of them, sam wandering to sample the purple ooze from the walls.

“so, isn’t it such a- a _dream_ thing to do - making you see it? one last time, hm? just for the kick, look into my eyes and, oh, wallow in what you lost?”

“dream, what’re you-“

“because, really, it’s your fault. not mine. not really. technically? maybe.”

he was standing now. adrenaline and anger could do that to you.

“dream, what the- what the fuck are-“

“i don’t like being mad, but i am. i am this time, not because of what i let happen, no, but because of _you_! what _you_ let happen! because, believe me, _george_ , trust me, _sapnap_ , listen to me, _tommy_ , process the words i’m articulating, _sam_ , i would never let it happen to anyone else.”

his tone was laced now with danger, that much was obvious. he’d never see them again so, what the hell? make a lasting impression! he was _bitter_ , let them feel guilty. 

“you all _watched_. all of you! i’d call it impressive if it wasn’t so _fucking ignorant_ of you.”

they had flinched as he swore, he didn’t do it often. they had expected silence or a final taunt, not another damn one-man dream-speech. not one like this. what was he on about? well.  
ha.  
_well_.

“now i’m staying here for the rest of my forever, yeah? i’ll give you the rest of _your_ forevers to think this one over: how did _i_ let this happen?”

and with that, he dragged the mask of porcelain smiles and haunting grins off his face, letting them bask in the nature of his features.

sapnap, sam and george had all seen it before, but he knew even tommy could tell the marks of damage across his features. the gasps of shock and exclamations of fear he received were supplement enough to reassure his mind that they were sorry. they didn’t know. they were wrong and they knew it. 

his eyes, which he knew were with a permanent black sclera, pupils only a ring of neon green that differed like toxic waste from the old emerald of his eyes. the skin down his face was marked with black stains, like his eyes leaked black tar that stained instead of tears. 

and, just like that, with the people he’d hurt most, the people who he had thought as friends and associates rushing to catch him, he let his fight flee his body, energy drained from one final defiance. 

this time, as darkness blotted his vision like the calling of sleep, he knew it wouldn’t lift.   
ever. 

**Author's Note:**

> i’m not rlly a dream apologist?? kinda?? i’m more of an everyone apologist, i LOVE moral ambiguity dudes like, 🥂.
> 
> i can write any character as a victim,,, that isn’t phil bc MAN he’s such a bad dad?? like i only write him as a good dad bc i cannot STAND him otherwise 💞💞


End file.
